Markovitch had nearly reached Semyonov’s door (you remember that there was a little square window of glass in the upper part of it) when he did a funny thing.  He stopped dead as though some one had rapped him on the shoulder.  He stopped and looked round, then, very slowly, as though he were compelled, gazed with his nervous blinking eyes up at the portrait of the old gentleman with the bushy eyebrows.  Bohun looked up too and saw (it was probably a trick of the faltering candle-light) that the old man was not looking at him at all, but steadfastly, and, of course, ironically at Markovitch.  The two regarded one another for a while, then Markovitch, still moving with the greatest caution, slipped the revolver back into his pocket, got a chair, climbed on to it and lifted the picture down from its nail.  He looked at it for a moment, staring into the cracked and roughened paint, then hung it deliberately back on its nail again, but with its face to the wall.  As he did this his bare, skinny legs were trembling so on the chair that, at every moment, he threatened to topple over.  He climbed down at last, put the chair back in its place, and then once more turned towards Semyonov’s door.

When he reached it he stopped and again took out the revolver, opened it, looked into it, and closed it.  Then he put his hand on the door-knob.

It was then that Bohun had, as one has in dreams, a sudden impulse to scream:  “Look out!  Look out!  Look out!” although, Heaven knows, he had no desire to protect Semyonov from anything.  But it was just then that the oddest conviction came over him, namely, an assurance that Semyonov was standing on the other side of the door, looking through the little window and waiting.  He could not have told, any more than one can ever tell in dreams, how he was so certain of this.  He could only see the little window as the dimmest and darkest square of shadow behind Markovitch’s candle, but he was sure that this was so.  He could even see Semyonov standing there, in his shirt, with his thick legs, his head a little raised, listening...

For what seemed an endless time Markovitch did not move.  He also seemed to be listening.  Was it possible that he heard Semyonov’s breathing?...  But, of course, I have never had any actual knowledge that Semyonov was there.  That was simply Bohun’s idea....

Then Markovitch began very slowly, bending a little, as though it were stiff and difficult, to turn the handle.  I don’t know what then Bohun would have done.  He must, I think, have moved, shouted, screamed, done something or other.  There was another interruption.  He heard a quick, soft step behind him.  He moved into the shadow.

It was Vera, in her night-dress, her hair down her back.

She came forward into the room and whispered very quietly:  “Nicholas!”

He turned at once.  He did not seem to be startled or surprised; he had dropped the revolver at once back into his pocket.  He came up to her, she bent down and kissed him, then put her arm round him and led him away.